


Broken beyond repair

by CatRoofDance



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Blood, Breathplay, Drug Abuse, Hints of Non-con, M/M, Other, Pre-Slash, Slash, Torture, dark!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-29
Updated: 2012-04-29
Packaged: 2017-11-04 13:26:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 20,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/394379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatRoofDance/pseuds/CatRoofDance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Before he can say a word the gunshot echoes through the room. Breaks clashing through the window, digs a hole into flesh."</p><p>Sherlock doesn't know how to care about people. But when Moriarty burns his heart and leaves it broken, Sherlock has to fight his clinical self. Can he save John, whatever happend to him?</p><p>And there's Sebastian Moran and his strange relationship with Jim Moriarty: a dangerous addicition.</p><p>"I’m addicted to you, you are a drug, Jim Moriarty.”<br/>“It’s a dangerous addiction, Seb, and one day it will kill you.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fresh suture

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there,
> 
> please note that this work came out of a dark and twisted part of my mind.  
> I finished this work last week, posted it on other sites before, but now that I'm part of AO3 I decided to post the completed version here as well. 
> 
> Please feel free so point out any mistakes, especialy if there are any grammar mistakes. I'm from Germany, I write all my stories in German first and translate them afterwards. 
> 
> I hope you'll enjoy this series ;)
> 
> cat.

**Broken beyond repair**

 

**  
**

**1.** **Fresh suture**

“Turn your head, let me see the wound.”

Sherlock feels a warm hand on his cheek which tips his head to the left. Reluctantly he gives in, turns his face, reveals a long cut starting right under his ear, running along his neck and disappearing under his shirt.

“Damn it, Sherlock. That was close.”

Warm fingers move along the wound margin, blotting dry the red, the alcohol leaves a burning sensation.

It’s silent in 221b Bakerstreet, Sherlock is sitting on the sofa in which he had been pushed almost forcefully, and in front of him, seated on the coffee table, is his flat mate, partner, friend John Watson. He cleans the wound with calmness and precision without making too many words about it.

It had been in the middle of the night, John was already sleeping, when Sherlock had struggled into the flat. Drunken with adrenalin and dazed because of blood loss and breathlessness after a long hunt through London, Sherlock had been standing in John’s room, muttering his name. Silently first as if he didn’t knew what he actually wanted, then louder until it had become a shouting, even John had jumped out of his bed and had approached him long since. John had been an army doctor, he was used to being startled out of his sleep, bringing full performance instantly. His brain had switched to war, to nocturnal attack, bombings and ambushes. Calm and considerate he had pushed Sherlock downstairs into the living room where he could dress the wound in better light.

“The cut is especially deep below the ear and along the shoulder. The butterfly bandages won’t do. I need to stitch that up.”

John doesn’t bother asking Sherlock if he wants local anesthesia. It’s a silent way of punishment, of saying how stupid it had been going out alone. Sherlock smiles and tries not to grimace each time the needle enter his skin and a nasty sting rises.

“Do I want to know how that happened?” John’s question is floating through the room for some time, long enough to become rhetorical, not needing an answer any more.

Sherlock is lying in his bed. His fingers lift the bandage on his shoulder, he smells the disinfectant, the acrid smell enters his nose, his mind instantly categorises it, compares it to other chemical substances which are saved on his hard drive. Carefully he pushes one finger under the gauze bandage.

His fingertips skim over the fresh suture.

 

***

 

The next morning is grey. Fog is sticking between the buildings, gets caught on the chimneys and sinks back into the maze of London’s streets. The sun climbs over the rooftops, casting a strange dirty-yellow light on the metropolis.

Sherlock pulls his dressing gown closer around his body, spreads his toes on the old wood floor and looks out into the English morning, shivering. The flat is silent, it’s too early, in less than an hour John’s alarm clock will echo through the hallway and just a little bit after that, Mrs Hudson one floor below will wake up too and make tea.

Actually, Sherlock had expected to sleep late. He wouldn’t rest during his cases which caused his body to take what it needed by force afterwards and quite often he skipped a day sleeping. But this time Sherlock had awakened with a start early, soaked in sweat and breathing heavily he had sat erect in his bed, the sheets kicked away in a nightmare struggle. After that sleep seemed impossible, tired and feeble he had trudged into the living room.

The wound on his neck is burning, he can feel it hot against healthy skin, feels the heat in his face too and lifts his hand to his forehead yet again.

Sherlock isn’t surprised; much too late the wound had been cleaned and disinfected by John, much too long had he run through the city before, bleeding. Therefore an infection isn’t a surprise at all. Later John will see him coming down the stairs and planning to make tea, and he will instantly know what happened. Much too obvious are the red fever spots on Sherlocks normally pale skin, too experienced the doctors eyes which can make out the slightest shiver and the heavy breathing at long-distance. At first he will be angry, Sherlock imagines, will address the reproaches which he had swallowed yesterday, in the silence of the night. After that he will be worried, will hush his fears like the doctor and healer he is. He will tell him that the infection won’t kill him, will name some medicine which Sherlock of course already knows, and finally, before leaving the flat, he will make a bad joke about the wound leaving an ugly scar. And naturally John will place part of the blame on himself, because that’s John, and no matter how hard Sherlock tries, he can’t sort his flatmate out.

Sherlock smiles at that thought. Upstairs he can hear the first shrill tones of Johns alarm clock, hears him turning in his bed, just once, and then he’s awake. Army doctor. He’s used to it.

Downstairs Sherlock turns away from the window, observes the silent flat, now enlightened by orange sunbeams which managed to fight through the dense fog.

Suddenly his view blurs, the room tilts over, more heat rises to his head until it feels like it would have to explode, as though all the warmth being smoke need to leave his head, and for just a slight moment his gaze levels out, the room is even again. Seconds later he lies on the cold wooden floor, unconscious.

Upstairs John turns his alarm clock off.

 

***

 

_“Alive”, the voice on the mobile phone repeats. Sebastian Moran rolls his eyes before he confirms the mission yet again. Lying flat on the ground he stares through the scope of his sniper rifle. Two other men sit behind him, dressed in black as well, and watch him eagerly, expecting orders._

_The light in the upper floor comes on, Moran turns his head backwards, nods to the others and points down with his hand. The two men disappear without a word. Moran lifts the mobile to his ear again._

_“Pull up the car, Jim.”_

_It clicks on the other side of the line before the voice chuckles quietly._

_“Aye-aye, captain.”_

_***_

There’s a whistle in his ears, an awkward sound which seems to echo in his head. Something cool is lying on his forehead, probably a soaked cloth, a drip trickles down his cheekbone to his ear. Sherlock slowly opens his eyes. Moves the fingertips. Turns his head.

He’s lying on the sofa, there are some packages of medicine beside him on the coffee table, anti-inflammatory drug, pain killer, antipyretic. And a steaming cup of tea. Sherlock sits up, the soggy cloth slips from his forehead. He realizes that the bandage on his shoulder had disappeared, there’s just bare, sore skin shining under orange ointment.

John comes out of the kitchen, his gaze neutral, he is already dressed, his jacket in his hand.

“Take the medicine, stay lying down. I will be back this evening”, he just says.

Sherlock watches him irritated, tries to interpret his posture, but the fever makes it hard, his head roars and vibrates. He consults the watch, it’s already past 8.

“You’re late”, he states, the only deduction he is able to do, and as an evidence he tiredly taps on the watch.

“I had a special patient today, he detained me”, John says through gritted teeth, and now even Sherlock’s fever-soaked brain can’t miss it.

“You’re angry”, again a statement because Sherlock Holmes doesn’t guess.

John takes some steps into the room.

“You know what would have happened if you had passed out just a few inches further?”

Sherlock looks around, can’t quite remember where he had stood when falling over.

“Well, you seem rather slow this morning, so I will help you along. Your head would have met the table top at a very bad angle. Laceration, in the best case. In the worst, depending on the angle, broken neck. And I clean up after you.”

John’s voice stays calm, he just opens and closes his fists again and again, in his mind he’s probably repeatedly counting to ten to stop himself from jumping at his flatmates throat and strangle him to death.

Sherlock leans back a bit, watches the edge of the table, curses his brain which is so slow this morning, looks up to John again who gazes at him and waits for a snippy answer, for a apology, anything. Sherlock doesn’t know.

“I don’t know what want from me”, he therefore says.

On John’s face appears a desperate grin, he looks up at the ceiling as if he expects help from there.

“I don’t know either, Sherlock”, he says, and then resignedly lifts his hands. “Maybe that someday I don’t have to be the one to save your butt anymore. That you will see sense. I can shoot cab drivers and beat down Chinese assassins, no problem. But the task of protecting you from yourself overtaxes me.”

“I don’t need someone who…”

“You don’t even realize it!” John almost shouts, Mrs. Hudson below surely can understand every word, the walls of these old London buildings are thin. “Actually there are humans existing who cannot stop caring about other people!” His whole body is strained, he leans forward slightly, his hands clenched into fists.

“Why should you care about me? I don’t need that!” Sherlock says dry-witted.

John’s eyes widen, all the strain leaves his body, he lets his arms loose, his shoulders sink. Sherlock looks up at him, looks at the surprised face of his friend, and deep down in his overheated mind he knows that he said something stupid and he desperately tries to dig out an apology. But apologies are buried deeply in his brain, seldom used, so that he has difficulties to find one.

Sherlock opens his mouth.

Before he can say a word the gunshot echoes through the room. Breaks clashing through the window, digs a hole into flesh.

John’s upper body is yanked around, then he tumbles to the ground.

For some seconds Sherlock stares wide-eyed at the lifeless body before he remembers to breath. He slowly turns his head, sees the whole in the windowpane, estimates the trajectory, and follows with his eyes. His gaze gets caught by a small gap in the wooden door case. That’s where the bullet is stuck, a trough-and-through wound. His brain tries to match the gauge of the weapon while his body stands up mechanically and walks around the table. He looks down at John’s body, a pool of blood formed under him, but Sherlock can see his respiration, sees the fitfully breathing, how the chest is rising and falling. John isn’t unconscious, he’s just paralyzed.

There are noises down the hall, but Sherlock ignores them, his brain is busy bringing up useless stuff. Pictures from sniper rifles appear in front if his mind’s eye, news articles, patient files, names. He blinks but can’t suppress the pictures entirely, his mind overflows him while he crouches down, a shaking finger reaching for John’s face.

Someone grabs him from behind, pulls him ungentle on his shoulders, pressing a cloth over his face. Chloroform. Methane trichloride. CHCl3\. Freon 20. A colorless, sweet-smelling, dense liquid.

John.

Boiling point: 61.2 °C. Aggregate phase: Liquid.

John.

Molar mass: 119.38 g/mol-1

John….

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Eager puppeteer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We got no message. We hesitate. We smile.

**2\. Eager puppeteer**

No message. Not even a clue. Nothing.

Some policemen are searching the flat, Sherlock knows it’s pointless but he decides to remain silent. Lestrade is standing awkwardly in the kitchen, nipping silently and with shaking hands on the tea which Mrs. Hudson made a few minutes ago. The Detective Inspector appears nervous, stressed. Sherlock keeps forgetting that John and Greg are something like friends.

Human relations are not Sherlocks cup of tea, he has difficulties to get involved with other people, to understand the urge of it. Emotional attachment to other humans is strange to him and he thinks of them as a useless burden. Even now his brain isn’t filled with concern. While all the people around him seem to be frantic and panic-fuelled, Sherlock keeps calm. He’s sitting in his armchair, his head finally clearer after some antipyretics, and spreads out his imaginary map.

The details. Someone shoots through the right window of the flat, an almost impossible shot, a difficult angle, the rifleman is a professional. The bullet hits John’s right upper shoulder, in such a way that neither bones nor his lungs were injured, a through-in-through wound, great deal of pain and a lot of blood. It could have been a miss, but a gunman who managed to shoot through the window at that angle, aiming for the heart on the left side, but hits the right shoulder instead, that seems unlikely. The shot wasn’t supposed to kill, it was meant to defang John. The surprise, the pain and the blood loss paralysed and incapacitated him, and Sherlock was long enough distracted so the men were able to chloroform him.

Sherlock frowns, a 3-d-model of the flat appears in his mind map, and he positions himself and John, then the shooter and his accomplices in it. Everything seems logic. A precise course of action without too many sources of error. Even without his fever, which the enemies couldn’t possible have foreseen, they both hadn’t stand a chance. But two questions remain open. How could it be that Mycrofts men didn’t interfere? And: Why did the strangers only take John but left Sherlock unharmed and without a message?

In his mind Sherlock scrolls down a list of names. Persons who went to jail because of him, people who would have more than one reason to attack him, to hurt or even more kill him. But at every name his head twitches to the left, crosses out invisible words. It wasn’t one of them, Sherlock knows that and in the corner of his eye a name keeps lighting up, and yet he tries to find an alternative. Because when he’s right, and unfortunately he mostly is, then they are in more trouble than assumed.

His brain brings up the smell of chlorine, the faint lapping of water, muggy air. A bomb under a parka. A Westwood suit.

“Moriarty”, Sherlock finally says when his gaze comes out of his mind palace and leaves the memory behind.

 

 

***

 

 

  _Sebastian Moran hesitates before he opens the door. The room is dark, as always, and in partial shade in front of the window there stands Jim Moriarty, the back turned to the door. Dressed in one of his beloved Westwood suits, motionless, staring out of the window. Except for a broad desk and a tall office armchair the room is empty, leaves the observer with nothing to go on, like preferences or features. Moriarty loves it to remain anonymous, to stay on the sidelines, the strings between his fingers, despite his eccentric character._

_But sometimes Sebastian reckons to see Jims finger flinch when he gives him a new mission, just a short movement, an itch in the fingertips. That’s when he knows that Jim would prefer to be out there too, on the battlefield instead of only giving orders and moving little figurines on a map. For his own protection he stayed hidden, but the boredom gained the upper hand, became a problem. Moriarty grew eager and being only a puppeteer seemed not enough anymore. Like a little child he insisted on his right to join the game. The result was an evening in an airless public swimming pool, Sebastian Moran in full panoply in a corner of the hall, pointing a red dot to Sherlock Holmes’ forehead while sweat tripled down his neck._

_But now Jim stands calm as never before in front of  the window, a new day in London behind the glass, the people and her thoughts, dreams, memories, millions of feet trampling over cobblestones, millions of pairs of eyes recording the lights and the shadows of London. When Sebastian approaches Jim he can see the disgust in his eyes, looking down into the metropolis and the life in it._

_He places a hand on Jims shoulder. A quiet sign. All went according to the plan, the time has come._

_Moriarty faces him, the smile glows in his pupils before reaching the corners of his mouth._

 

 

***

 

 

Sherlock stares out of the window down into the streets; he follows passersby with his eyes, deductions lighting up like small side notes, he ignores them, gives his brain time to rest and to keep the background noises as silent as possible.

The policemen left the flat, only Lestrade remained, he stands in the kitchen, drinking one tea after the other, sometimes bandies words with Mrs. Hudson when she sneaks up every half hour and doesn’t even bother to address Sherlock.

The wound on his neck itches, he resists the urge to rip it open with his fingernails, to tug on the wound margins until the suture breaks and he can dip his fingers in fresh blood. His stomach rumbles, a strange mixture of hunger and something different, more awkward. His muscles cramp, he squirms lightly, eyes the pain killers but knows it would be stupid to take even more, his stomach is empty and his head already foggy.

Suddenly Mycroft stands in the doorframe, invited himself in as usually, around his right wrist swings the umbrella, today not for protection, more for support because he’s pale, shrunken and his eyes seem even more tired than usual. He enters the living room without a word, sinks exhausted into the sofa.

Mrs. Hudson offers him tea, at first he lightly shakes his head, but then he changes his mind and lifts thankfully his hand while nodding.

Sherlock thrust aside the grey mist in his head, decides to ignore his stomach cramps, turns over and stares wordless at his older brother for a while until he realises that his legs won’t take his weight any longer and he trudges to his arm chair. For a while it’s absolutely silent, just once the sound of Mrs. Hudson is heard, placing the tea in front of Mycroft, shaking. When Sherlock breaks the silence it’s as if they are all breathing fresh air for the first time after a long dive.

“Why didn’t your men stop this?”

Mycroft sips his tea, literally clings to his cup, and then he slowly looks up.

“Because they’re dead, Sherlock. We found their bodies an hour ago a few miles eastward from here. Two headshots, one with his throat cut.”

Mrs. Hudson lifts her hand to her mouth, Lestrades face, already looking tense, becomes even bitterer, he stares abashed to the floor.

 Sherlock places his palms against each other, his fingertips brushed against his chin.

“Interesting”, he quietly says.

Mycroft sighs. “Interesting? I must explain to their families how they could die on a simple observation. Simon had a little daughter, Bill leaves behind...” He looks at his younger brother for a moment, and then he shakes his head. “Well, who am I talking to? It’s of no importance to you.”

“Of course”, Sherlock says calmly, and in his head pieces of the puzzle are put together, “it tells us, that he means business. No message, no threat. But three men dead, and he has John. This isn’t a game anymore. This is deadly serious.”

Only after half a minute, when he is sure no one is watching him anymore, he allows himself a faint smile.

 


	3. Heartbreak Hotel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We listen to music. We look into the mirror. We visit the Heartbreak Hotel.

**3** **. Heartbreak Hotel**

_From somewhere comes the sound of Jazz, he can hear muffled trumpets. He briefly lifts his head, looks up at the ceiling behind which the music vibrates. Then he lightly taps his toes, Jazz, Swing, he could never hold still when music like this was playing, he smiles._

_When he looks down at John Watson again, that man is staring at him. It’s the same stare as before, grimly, controlled, but around his lips a smile appears, just a twitch in the corners of his mouth. Nevertheless Sebastian Moran feels like he got caught, and he grits his teeth._

_With his clenched hand he strikes out, hits the former army doctors left cheek so hard that his head is thrown aside. Sebastian briefly shakes his fist, massages the knuckles, then he plants himself in front of Watson, grabs his sandy yellow hair and pulls his head back. Blood trickles out of John’s mouth which is bend upwards, and the smile even remains when Sebastian Moran takes out a knife with his free hand._

_He allows himself so feel the cool hilt and the ornament on it for a while. He remembers the day he bought it, how the sun burnt down on him, and that he killed a man the very evening, the same person that had sold him the knife before, and Sebastian Moran had thanked the dead man while he stole back his own money out of wide trouser pockets._

_The knife lies still comfortably in his hand, after all these years, and he puts the blade on bare skin and applies pressure until the skin breaks and the first red drops emerge and run down the steel to his hand, and John Watson is still smiling and Sebastian accepts that and he even feels a bit pity for him, because he knows he will cut the smile out of his face, bit by bit._

***

 

Sherlock Holmes looks into the mirror. The scar is only pale pink, and in the middle, where the butterfly bandages had been, it is nearly invisible. He removed the stitched under his ears yesterday, now he opens the upper buttons of his shirt, pushes it over his shoulder and observes the healed cut. The inflammation abated more than a week ago.

Carefully he pulls at the stitches with forceps, they detach without problems, nowadays they are made out of organic material so that they are biodegradable. Some stitches don’t even need to be removed.

When Sherlock extracted the last parts, he lowers his hand, bends his neck even more and observes the cut in its full length. On his shoulder white scar tissue already formed, a pale line, and will probably remain there and always remind him of this incident. Like John said, Sherlock bitterly thinks. Then his eyes widen when he realises that John never really said this, and that this scene only existed in his mind.

Sherlocks mobile phone vibrates in his pocket, without taking his eyes off the mirror, he pulls it out.

 

We found the club.

Meet us there in 30. – GL

 

In his excitement Lestrade must have forgotten to send him the address, but Sherlock knows it anyways. He himself suspected the club and only waited for a confirmation. Frantically he shoves the mobile back into his pocket, pulls the shirt back over his shoulder. Five minutes later he sits in a cab heading for the north.

 

 

***

 

When he leaves the cab, Lestrades approaches him.

“We did some research. On ground floor there is the former club you mentioned. There are illegal parties taking place by night, by day an old lady gives dancing classes here. We didn’t enter yet. Outside everything seems clear, no guards, no cameras.”

Sherlock wrinkles his nose, gazes up the narrow brick building. The sun stands behind the house, among the shades it’s cold, the wind tugs on ragged posters hanging on the walls. The name of the club is hidden behind graffiti, under red and yellow paroles the words ‘Heartbreak Hotel’ are written.

Moriarty left him with nothing, no message, not even a clue. Not even the dead bodies of Mycrofts men were of any help. But after two days a neighbour reported that he had seen a grey van driving away the day the incident happened. He recognised it because of the car sign, he couldn’t tell from which country it was but he could describe what it looked like. So they learned that the car was German and came from Hamburg.

The car didn’t show up after that, but Sherlock knew someone who would probably know when a German van was crossing the city. A week after the incident he was sitting at table with Edgar Harris one evening, and while the guy shovelled pasta into his mouth and drank expensive Italian wine, he got chatty, and soon talked about rumours that two German professionals were in town. He gave him some names of people Sherlock could ask about this matter, and so he happened to talk to a man who had been on the phone with these said professionals.

“Almost accent-free, you wouldn’t recognise it. There was Jazz music in the background, I remember it because with made some jokes about it. They didn’t name their whereabouts, but they mentioned an old club. They wanted a save exit after a mission in London, I was willing to get them one. But they didn’t get in touch since then, so either they found a better offer, or they’re still in town.”

Now they’re standing in front of the ‘Heartbreak Hotel’, an old club in the north of the city, and when Lestrades radio crackles and a distorted voice tells them that a grey van had been found some streets away, Sherlock starts to grin. Two weeks are a long time, he thinks, and pulls his scarf closer. But in the end he solved the riddle, Moriarty lost again. Sherlock feels a tingling in his extremities, the endorphin which streams through his body.

Lestrades hand wanders down to his weapon; he presses one finger lightly against the metal, and then waves Sherlock nearer. Two policemen go first, the pistols produced. At first they enter the building through a rusty backdoor, inside it’s dark, the light switch is dusty and even after pushing it a few times no light bulb flickers.

Then they reach the dance hall, the sun breaks through top lights whose cover disintegrated long time ago. The officers raise the dust; it dances in the light beams, trundles over the old, corroded dance floor. Through another door they go down, they follow some long corridors, here and there the lighting still works, the walls are yellowed, wallpaper and plaster flakes off in big scraps, dust and rubble accumulated on the ground.

Finally they find a stair which leads down into the cellar. The two policemen stare irritated at the clean steps, turn around quizzical to Lestrade, who for himself looks at Sherlock. He nods, even the others know what it means that there is no dust on the steps.

While they go down the stairs and sneak silently through the corridors, Sherlock has this strange feeling in his stomach again. The first time, after the attack, he had blamed hunger and the painkillers for it. But now there it is again, like a ball forming in his abdomen, weighting heavy, and that presses against his ribcage from the inside, it makes breathing harder and constricts his heart. It’s the first time that Sherlock realises that maybe John isn’t alive anymore. In his thoughts the last two weeks John didn’t matter that much, in fact Sherlock concentrated on solving the case, Moriartys riddle, a scavenger hunt through London. Sherlocks theories always included, that John was hold captive somewhere, not treated well but still alive. But suddenly, here in the dust and mould, it dawns on Sherlock that John could likely be dead. He remembers Moriartys words.

In front of him the policemen stop, pointing nervously at a narrow light beam showing under a door crack on the other side of the corridor.

‘I’ll burn the heart out of you.’ The words echo through Sherlocks head.

Lestrade produces his weapon and nods towards the door, the policemen position themselves on both sides of the entry. Only mouthing the words the detective inspector counts down from five before he kicks in the door and storms the room, the officers following him.

‘Heartbreak Hotel’. Sherlocks heart contracts, his arms and legs feel stony, but then he can break away all the same, approaches the room with grand strides and enters it without protection or precaution and realises that the men have lowered their guns.

Then his gaze meets two bodies which are lying lifeless on the dirty ground. The men, dressed in black, lie in a pool of coagulated blood. On the back of the two dead men someone painted a smiley with yellow colour.

Only now he becomes aware of the stench and he places his hand above his nose and mouth. He slowly turns around, looks into the puzzled and disgusted faces of the others, then searches the walls and corners of the room, but there is nothing, it’s empty.

Red herring, Sherlock thinks.

And then: John isn’t here.

 

 

 


	4. Bloodstained metronome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We recieve a gift. We remember the desert (which is covered in blood). We go berserk.

**4.** **Bloodstained metronome**

The days in 221b Bakerstreet go by in slow motion. London slows down, passes by the windows in long vicious stripes. Cabs carry light cones before themselves, the wet asphalt reflects the sneaking silhouettes, dust and dirt floats down the gutter channels and disappears under the city into dark vaults. From above the rain is falling, drums a rhythm on the rooftops like a metronome. To Sherlock it seems as if it ceases swinging, losing pace with every day. The time passes by so slowly, and yet it’s running out.

Tiredly he ruffles through his dark curls, his eyes are burning in the light of the bedside lamp. He is sitting cross-legged on his bed, photos of the crime scene and pictures from the old club spread in front of him. Their visit was two weeks ago.

The two men were, as Sherlock had already guessed, the German professionals, wherewith the riddle why they wouldn’t get in touch with their contact man was solved. The throats were cut, a lot of blood at the crime scene means the murder happened in the cellar. No traces of fights, no bullets or capsules, the victims knew their murderer or at least trusted him and allowed him to come near. Therefore it probably was one of Moriartys henchmen, sent to get rid of unnecessary confidants. Maybe he came to the club under the pretext to hand over the money.

Sherlock knits his eyebrows again, as every time he reaches this point of his deductions. The two of them were professionals, hitmen who left behind dead bodies in whole Europe but never evidence. That’s why they at first assumed that there were several killers. But both dead men showed the same kinds of injuries, a long deep cut above the throat.  After more precise investigations they came to the conclusion, that they both were killed with the same weapon, a knife with a broad, bent blade, which meant that they were killed by the very same person.

Sherlock bends over another pack of photos, pictures of different knives which match the description. He already marked the ones he believes to be most likely with a small red cross. He blinks with his eyes, has more and more difficulties to keep them open. Sherlock turns his head and looks out of the window, sees that the sky on the horizon changes colour from black to dirty gray, it dawns.

He shakes his head, grabs the pile of pictures and peruses them one more time and rules out some weapons completely. And as always his gaze gets caught by a certain knife. A Jambiya, an Arabic blade as it is sold and worn in Yemen. The blades are usually double-sided and on the top strongly curved. It would fit the murder weapon perfectly.

Sherlock thinks. What would a weapon like this tell about his bearer? Probably military background. A preference for rare weapons. Sent to Near East, but has been thrown out of the army or left on his own accord, worked as a mercenary since then. Sherlock closes his eyes, in his head a picture forms itself, like pieces of a jigsaw the details fit together, until a faceless person stands in front of him, a Jambiya in his hand. Characteristics in the form of white words light up in the background. Sherlock tries to concentrate on the weapon and suddenly another picture flares up. Startled he opens his eyes.

A blade meeting skin and ripping it open until the red gushes out.

Sherlock sits still, he hears the pounding of his heart over the noises of the awakening city. The pictures fell out of his hands, are now scattered over photos of the dead men.

Suddenly the door bell rings, Sherlock turns his head in confusion, breaks through his paralysation and climbs out of his bed. With naked feet he sneaks through the empty flat and down the stairs until he hesitantly stands in front of the door. When he finally opens it, the person which rang the bell, has already disappeared. But a small package lies on the doormat. Carefully Sherlock bends down, picks the parcel up and weighs it estimating in his hands.

Inside he moves on with all caution despite his curiosity. He checks if the package is rigged and puts on a mouthpiece in case it contains powder or something similar. A long time he examines the exterior, twists the box in his hands. No address, no stamps, no features. A package out of nowhere. Sherlock knows what that means: Mail from the devil. When he is sure that the box contains nothing dangerous he slowly opens it.

Sherlock tilts his head, pulls down the mouthpiece and reaches for the embedded object. It’s a small bottle, filled with a translucent liquid. In the liquid, almost motionless, floats a detached finger. Sherlocks eyes widen when he understands, he drops the flask, it hits the tabletop, clattering, and rolls until it comes to a halt right in front of the microscope.

It’s not the detached finger itself that horrifies Sherlock. It’s the fact that it is the index finger of the left hand.

John’s trigger finger.

 

 

***

 

 

_He’s back in Yemen, under him burns the sand, above him the sun. Under the Kufiya on his head his face is in the shadow, but the days in the desert already roughen his skin, excoriated it. Sebastian Moran turns around and blinks into the sun. His companions struggle up the dune behind him, their faces under the cloths are blank, they always are in his dreams._

_The Jaww al Hawf slowly changes from sand to beige stone, instead of wandering over dunes they now march through wind sculptured mountains, rocky and dry. Their destination, Tarim, lies hidden behind the horizon._

_Sebastian Moran doesn’t like taking orders, and he never was a good team player. He loves the danger and hates to hide behind too many other men. He rather solves problems on his own, by force of arm of course, and preferable with his hands so close to his victims body that the blood inevitably drops onto his own skin._

_Many can’t bear with the conditions in the Near East, too dry are climate and people here, too silent the desert. But Sebastian feels comfortable here, he likes the feeling of being reduced to himself, around him only hot air and the glowing ground, the next mission ahead. Killing a human being has a completely different quality here; you can’t steal anything from them but their lives. You can see it in their eyes._

_A mercenary is always needed here, the method of dealing with problems is mostly radical, they don’t talk much, they act._

_Some days ago a group of hooded strangers came to him, brought him whiskey and a job. Sebastian didn’t need any background information, didn’t want to hear about different terroristic units. He just needed a place, and a name. He received one: Jim Moriarty._

_His dream is flickering, the Jaww al Hawf blurs, the next time he sees a sharp picture, he is in Tarim and his companions are lying dead on the ground, blood sinks down into the sand. Sebastian recognises the spiky sand grains under his palms and the anger in his stomach. The pain in his leg doesn’t abate, he feels how with each heartbeat more blood is pumped out of his body and seeping into the desert. In front of him sand scrunches under shoes, he thinks of the Jambiya hidden on his back under the shirt. When he can see the shoes, he reaches for the knife, jumps up and carries the man off his feet. They roll through the dust in a short fight, until Sebastian gains the upper hand and he presses the other one into the dirt with his whole body weight. He holds the knife to his throat, hears weapons being unlocked and sees the rifle barrels pointing at him in the corner of his eyes. Carefully he considers in which body part he should stab the blade. He looks down._

_The man under him smiles, his eyes are glowing. He has lifted his arms to both sides, indicating his men not to shoot. Sebastian Moran still presses the weapon to his throat, the man lies silently under him, barely moves, the smile still in his face. And in his eyes he sees the abyss, sees the fine line between genius and insanity, realises the fire and hatred, things he always considered to be seen in his own eyes too. Emptiness filled with darkness._

_Slowly he removes the blade from the throat, leans back on the lying mans upper body, in the corner of his eyes the shooters grow hazy into spectres. The knife falls into the sand where it is left behind between bloody crystals. Under him the man opens his mouth, the words don’t reach his foggy head until it hits the ground._

_“Jim Moriarty. Hi.”_

 

***

 

 

“He’s just some random boy from the streets, Sherlock. He delivered the package for 5 £. Presumably the one who gave it to him was bought too. It’s hard to trace it back. Moriarty knows what he’s doing. It is just meant to be a reminder.” Mycroft waits a second without a sound coming from the other side of the line. Then he adds: “He doesn’t want you to find him.”

Sherlock wordlessly hangs up, slowly lowers the phone from his ear. He tugs up his legs and places his head on his knees. He’s sitting on his arm chair and stares into the kitchen. Not visible, behind his microscope, still lies the flask, he didn’t touch it since it rolled there. He observed the box once again but didn’t find anything, not the slightest clue.

Outside the rain beats against the window glass. Sherlocks stomach cramps, he didn’t eat for days and still doesn’t feel like it. Something constrains his heart, it feels like the heartbeat intermits, then it drums all the more against his ribcage from the inside. His hands cramp around the phone, suddenly he finds it hard to breathe.

Panicking he presses his legs even closer to his body, isn’t able to stay calm. Think, think, he repeats in his head like a mantra, but his brain acts up, he fails to think straight. Never before the eternal noise in his head was any loader, never before did Sherlock wish for silence that much. But instead his heart drums an irregular beat and his thoughts hammer against his skullcap. Pictures light up, he tries to ignore them, but it’s impossible to suppress the bloodstained visions, impossible not to think that John may be dead already, impossible not to remember the last words he said to him and how he regrets them, impossible to understand that he, Sherlock Holmes, is helpless.

With a scream he springs to his feet and tosses the phone to the ground where it noisily bursts. He grabs John’s armchair and knocks it over, then he grips the lamp and throws it to the ground as well, where it lands rattling. With a swift movement he whips off the objects on the mantelpiece, a picture frame cracks, the statue crashes when it hits the ground, the skull rolls over the old wooden floor. Then he rips off the notes and photos from the wall together with the pins and strained strings, tugs on documents until only scraps of paper are left, they silently tumble down.

Sherlock breathes heavily, he clenches his fists while he stares at the empty wall. Suddenly he feels a pounding in his right hand, slowly he lifts it before his eyes. A long cut goes through the palm, blood gushes out of it and flows warm across his arm before it drips down.

Sherlock stands still. Outside the rain stopped, the wind blows through the cracks of the old building. He doesn’t move, under him are the fragments and remains of his fury, and he silently watches the blood pouring out if his body.

 

 


	5. Dangerous addiction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We are addicted. We can't help it. We give in to it.

**5\. Dangerous addiction**

**** **_“I won’t hold you back_ **

**_let your anger rise_ **

**_and we’ll fly and we’ll fall and we’ll burn_ **

**_no one will recall, no one will recall._ **

****

**_Look at the stars_ **

**_let hope burn your eyes_ **

**_and we’ll love and we’ll hate and we’ll die_ **

**_all to no avail, all to no avail._ **

****

**_This is the last time I’ll abandon you_ **

**_and this is the last time I’ll forget you, I’ll forget you_ **

**_I wish I could.”_ **

****

**_(Muse – Stockholm syndrome)_ **

****

_When he opens his eyes he stares at the dark ceiling. Inside the rooms it’s cold and somber, the bed is big and cool and empty. Sebastian always sleeps on the right side so he can reach his weapons faster which are placed upon the bedside table, if needed. Sometimes, when he wakes up at night, Jim Moriarty is sitting next to him, leaning against the head board, a book in his hands or his laptop on his knees. But he never sees him sleep._

_Now he is alone, the window is open, icy air fills the curtains, ghostly they get blown into the room and curl. Sebastian doesn’t feel cold, the heat of the desert from his dream is still inside of him, he almost enjoys the ice-cold breeze. His fingertips stroke his arms, finding the scars from that year in the desert, and he feels the slight pain in his leg which he has since then. He recalls the cellar, the hot air, the rough material of his bonds which held his hands together behind his back and the red shining skin of his wrists. The drops of sweat which dripped down his neck, his shirt which stuck to his skin. And Jim Moriarty who didn’t seem to notice the heat, who smoldered from within and radiated chill all the same, Jim Moriarty who stood in front of him and asked him questions, at first, and then eventually kept silent like his opposite. The following weeks and months. A year. He feels the scars, the visible and the invisible ones. There are too much, and still he keeps counting them._

_The door cracks silently when someone pulls down the handle, and in the dim light of the street lamp which shines through the windows, Jim Moriarty slips in and sneaks into the room up to the bed. When he realises that Sebastian’s eyes are open and that he is watching his very steps he stands still, just one arm-length away, and smiles. Even in the half-dark Sebastian can tell that Jim is vibrating from inner tension. His eyes glow, his hands close and open themselves restlessly, his body slightly rocks back and forth. Something like electricity is in the air, Moran feels the light tingling on his skin, the tiny hair on his neck stands on end. He instantly knows that Jim comes from_ him, _and he knows that the time has come. He sees it on Jim’s face, something that most people would call anticipation, but it’s more bloodlust, as if he could taste the first drop of blood on the tip of his tongue, as if he were in expectation of more to come. Sebastian slowly sits himself up, turns to the side and sits on the edge of the bed._

_They remain like that for a while, Jim trembling with energy, and Sebastian calm. The silence and taciturnity reminds him of that one year in the desert, and his stomach knots. He takes a deep breath before he speaks the first words._

_“I was worthless. I had no information, there wasn’t any ransom money to gain.”_

_Moriarty blinks confused, his thoughts still with the doctor and the coming day, but then he finds the connection, and the right corner of his mouth curls up._

_“You wonder why I didn’t kill you immediately, back then in the desert”, he states, then he nods absentmindedly as if he traveled back to that damn place, as if he had to find the answer himself. Then he sighs but not from disappointment, it’s more a nostalgic sigh which is used when talking about good old days. “I planned to do that, really. But then I found you rather interesting. The look in your eyes, the noise of your silence, the colour and taste of your blood.”_

_He lightly licks his upper lip, his gaze fixed upon Sebastian, looks down on him. Sebastian moves forward a bit, just an inch, his fingertips are trembling._

_“I needed distraction, had to work a lot in Yemen, and you know how the people down there are, there isn’t much talking with them.” He chuckles silently. “I guess I enjoyed it, yes, I liked the idea of having someone who would be there if I wanted him to be. And you were so taciturn and obedient, oh, I almost miss that cellar in the desert. Your skin smelled of sand.”_

_Sebastian swallows, his memories are dancing in front if his eyes, mix with reality. “After a year you loosened my bonds.”_

_Moriarty nods. “You never left. Freedom was my greatest gift to you, you refused it.” He cocks his head, almost like a dog, his eyes are big and questioning. “Why?”_

_Sebastian asked himself that very same question frequently, the first time when the air was still hot and sand was sticking to his hair._

_“I hated it”, he finally says, and adds “and I loved it. I couldn’t imagine how life outside the cellar would be. I got used to the smell of blood and sweat. I relished the pain. I’m addicted to you, you are a drug, Jim Moriarty.”_

_Jim grins, with one step he reaches Sebastian, pushes him back and down into the softness of the bed. He leans over him and straddles him, one hand pressed against his ribcage, the other one grabs the blonde hair and pulls the head back with it. Sebastian moans, pain goes through his spine, he bends backwards, his chest arches against Jim’s body. Moriarty leans forward beside his head, he can feel his breath against his earlobe, and he hears the whispered words._

_“It’s a dangerous addiction, Seb, and one day it will kill you.”_

_The hand in his hair lets lose for a moment, slowly his spine relaxes. When his head rests on the mattress again, Jim crashes his mouth against his, all the intensity left in Jim’s body streams into that kiss, it is brutal, violent. Teeth rip at Morans bottom lip until they find blood, one hand slides ungentle to his throat and squeezes, lets lose only when white stars dance in the corner of Sebastian’s eyes. He tastes his own blood on his tongue, feels Jim’s body hot against his own, and then he can smell the sand and the salty skin and he is back in Yemen and in that damn year that he hates so much and loves so much and that he can never forget._

_Later he lies alone again, chill brushes bare skin, and he wonders how much longer until the deadly dose._

_***_

Sherlocks finger skim over the pale scar on his neck, it is almost invisible. Two months went by since his fingers touched the still fresh sutures, and since the morning Jim Moriarty stole John.

Lestrade visited today, offered him a case, but Sherlock refused. He was too occupied with his chemical and biological experiments, he argued and left him outside in the cold.

Now he had stumbled back into the darkness of the flat and observes his white face in the mirror. Somewhere behind his microscope, which he hasn’t used for weeks, still lies the flask. Just the thought of it fills him with nausea. In his head the thoughts drone again, he hates his brain, he hates the noise. And he hates himself for not being able to control it, that he can’t abate it, his brain dominates him. There’s a hissing in his ears, he so much wishes for silence, for rest and for nothingness, that his head would be empty. He doesn’t want to think anymore, no more pictures, just lying down and enjoying the quiet.

His legs feel heavy when he gets up the stairs to John’s room, in his right hand, which hangs limply on his side, swings the oblong black wooden casket. In John’s chamber it’s warm, the sun shined onto the white blanket the whole day, and when Sherlock lies down on it he imagines it to be body heat.

When the needle enters his skin, his head becomes silent at once, he knows the effect of narcotics, and like a Pavlovian reflex the drugs effect starts before it even reaches his bloodstream. Sherlocks brain grows empty, he sighs in relief, feels the oxygen and his 7% solution running through his veins. Under him the bed is warm, it smells of sun.

Sherlocks mobile vibrates, the sound comes echoing to his ear, he slides blinking a hand in his pocket and pulls out the phone. Fuzzy fingers open the received text message, through dust and fog he can hardly make out five words, can’t decipher them at first.

In his head it’s quiet, so quiet. The phone slips out of his hand. The words burned into his retina.

 

_Come and pick him up._


	6. Broken glas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We fight against ourself. We think about him. We find him.

**6\. Broken glass**

Above his head by a string swings a mobile phone. Someone carved a smiley into the screen, probably with a knife. With a big grin it looks down on Sherlock.

After he woke up from his trip he couldn’t remember a thing. Those five words still flickered in front of his closed eyelids, but he wasn’t able to file them. When he realised where he was, in Johns bedroom that dusk had already painted grey, and when he discovered his mobile phone on the ground and saw the open text file, his memory returned.

_Come and pick him up._

Five words. Count the letters. Four, three, four, three, two.

 A code? No, the sentence is simple and it’s obvious what it means. It is addressed directly; the sound of it simulates familiarity.   _Pick him up..._

Sherlock swallowed down the bitter taste on his tongue. Shivering he went out of the room, left the black box and his 7% behind. When his voice stopped shaking he called Lestrade, concealing the fact that the text already reached him on the early afternoon. It didn’t take them longer than 20 minutes to locate the phone from which the message had been sent.

It smells of brackish water, a bit mouldy. It was warm the past days and the sun had warmed up the cloudy water of the Thames. One wall of the warehouse abuts on the river, on the left and right other halls are crowded together, and the front is piled up with pallets and boxes. The police has to clear the entrance first, Lestrade and two of his men try to enter the building through an alleged backdoor. Sherlock claims that he wants to examine the evidence at the front, actually he fights against the animal in his body which keeps throwing itself against the wall of his stomach and almost forced him to his knees more than once. He still feels giddy, an after-effect of the drugs, sometimes heat rises into his unusual pale face, and then the gravelly soil twirls under his feet and he has to cling to one of the pallets so as not to fall over.

A shout resounds, then the rattling of a gate. Sherlock turns around, sees that a swathe has been made and that the high gate has been pushed aside in its rusty mounting. Inside stands Lestrade, obviously he found a second entrance. With pounding ears Sherlock sets his feet before each other, it seems like he constantly has to remind his body how to walk. The policemen around him grow into faceless spectres, he wanders past them, concentrating on the dark gateway of the warehouse in which he will find John. The next thought forces itself upon him.

Dead or alive. There are only these two options. He calculated the probability, included all the factors; sometimes he tried to manipulate, betrayed himself and science. But the result stayed the same. He didn’t like it. Not at all.

When he walks through the gate, he breathes in dusty air, stale and filled with particles, the storage depot stood empty for a few months. Lestrade grabs his shoulder when he tries to pass him. His face is ash, grey and sunken. He searches eye contact, looks severely at him for some seconds, and Sherlock can see it working in the other ones head, searching for the right words in a situation where there are no right words. Finally Lestrades exhales slowly.

“He’s inside, Sherlock. Keep calm, don’t panic. He’s alive.”

Sherlock numbly nods, pushes Lestrade aside with a feeble hand, concentrating on his feet and his steps and not on the pieces of broken glass on the floor or the gravel under his shoes. He doesn’t mind the barrels standing on his left or the empty boxes under the plastic foil, he ignores the second tall gate through which he struggles, notices just partly the darkness which is only punctuated by a glary floodlight the police set. Everything around him becomes silent when he enters the great hall, which is empty.

No crates, no pallets, no plastic foil or boxes. Just a lifeless body in the spotlight.

 

 

***

 

_Jim seems to have cooled down. Seldom has Sebastian seen him as furious and disappointed as that, and never before has Moriarty killed a person out of sheer frustration. Now the corpse of the young IT expert lies sunk down behind the desk, on his forehead a little hole where the bullet broke through his skull._

_The office is located inside a building complex in the financial district. Jim likes to change his position and never stays too long in one place. It would be too risky and naive to think the most wanted criminal of England, maybe of the world, the man with all the strings in his hands, would be safe in one single location._

_The young man wasn’t supposed to die, not this time, Moriarty planned to be merciful because today was the big day, the delivery of the package. The man was supposed to lie drugged in a storeroom and not until tomorrow he should awake with no memory of what had happened._

_But then Sherlock was a long time coming. Jim planned everything. When he had to send the message and how long it would take Scotland Yard to trace the phone. When they would reach the warehouse and what time they would need to clear the entrance. He wrote every minute of his plan down on a piece of paper he carried with him all the time._

_“The lightning conditions, Seb,” he raved and made an expansive gesture. “The certain orange diffused light when he enters the hall. The dust particles becoming visible inside the light beams. The silence.” Jims eyes were burning with anticipation, he grabbed Sebastian’s shoulders as if he wanted to shake him. “It’s a painting I’m creating here. And he shall enter it and feel it, Seb, feel it tearing him apart!”_

_But it dawned and finally it grew dark without Sherlock or the police showing up. They installed cameras inside the building, so small and inconspicuous that it was nearly impossible to locate them. Sherlock would guess their presence, but if everything would go according to the plan, he wouldn’t be interested in details like this._

_“When someone picks up pieces of glass he doesn’t care for the one who broke it. He is careful not to cut his fingers and works on a solution to mend his favourite glass.”_

_But Sherlock was supposed to cut himself, the cuts should reach deep into his flesh, and he should fail to repair what Moriarty had destroyed._

_Jim smashed a computer and threw a couple of chairs out of the window, which gladly just faced the inner yard. Otherwise it could have been difficult to stay hidden, although the building itself was empty. The young man, who they kidnapped earlier this day and who they ordered to set up a connection to the cameras, became nervous. Before he was surprisingly calm, even dared to make some cheeky remarks, Sebastian actually admired him a bit. But all his guts couldn’t do against a bullet in his brain. Wordless he had sunk down._

_Jim is obsessed with Sherlock. At first it was more like a strange attachment which he felt he had with the consulting detective, he discovered a similar way of thinking and he was obviously impressed when Sherlock solved all his riddles. Moriarty hates humans, hates their manner, their movements and motives, why they do something for what reason. Actually he detests that everything needs a reason at all. The life itself is abhorrent to him, as well as he doesn’t care about any being. Initially Jim thought about making Sherlock changing sides. The tendencies, the darkness and the disgust for humans, he has it all. But then Jim realised that this would end the game before it even started. He wants to crush Sherlock. He wants to make him human like all the other pathetic creatures. It’s not simple, a challenge. And Jims raison d’être._

_Sebastian can’t get anything out of that. For him killing is something anonymous. It has less to do with mental cruelty than with steal and skin. He doesn’t want to know his victim, doesn’t want to look into his soul. He just wants to feel the life leaving the body, he likes the last shiver, the last breath. The physical and subsumable like tendons and muscles and blood, the violence of killing, that’s Sebastian Moran. Jims obsession with a person, how he watches him like through the lens of a microscope planning experiments, how he forgets about important things just to observe every minute of his test object; Sebastian can’t understand that. And it scares him. It’s not Jim’s madness, not the thought that he himself is just loosely entangled in this network and that his string could break anytime, leaving him to be a useless puppet in Moriartys hands. It’s concern. What will happen when the game is over? And what if Jim changes the rules of his little game, checkmating himself? Even now he is so close to get lost in it, and sometimes Sebastian thinks that Sherlock will be the secret winner of this trial of strengths because he made Jim be obsessed with him. He thinks that frequently. But he never speaks it out loud._

_The screen flickers, the cameras have only a limited night vision. The police tentatively illuminated the hall with a floodlight, but the faces are still in deep shadows. Jim suddenly bends forward very close to the screen, the image is reflected in his eyes. Sherlock Holmes enters the scene. And on the stage the shards are scattered._

_***_

John lies sideways, his face averted. The light comes from the front, enlightens his face which Sherlock can’t see yet. He wears the same clothes he wore that morning when he was shot, in the semi-darkness Sherlock can see dried blood on his back, soaked into the jumper since that certain day. For a second it’s like the last two months never happened, as if he was shot just a moment ago. But then Sherlock returns to the current situation, slowly he gets closer, his steps sound incredibly loud on the dirty floor.

A young man crouches besides the body, one hand put around the limb wrist, counting heart beats. Sherlock can see John breathing, the chest rising and falling slowly but steadily. He imagines that the doctor is sleeping. He clings to this thought, wants to keep it, but his bloody visions tear it off and hide it in a corner of his mind, he can’t find it again.

Slowly he circuit the body, Sherlock casts a shadow over John, drapes his face in blackness. The young man stands up, turns around to Sherlock and nods, as if permission is needed. 

He’s asleep, Sherlock thinks so he doesn’t forget it. When the man steps aside, he glances down to the wrist, the hand. Four fingers. Sherlock holds his breath. Steps aside. The light falls onto Johns face.

He isn’t pale. His skin seems to be smoother, eased, peaceful. The hair is longer and brighter, sand blonde, as if the sun had bleached it a bit, as if he just returned from the desert. His slow breathing, his silence, one could really think he’s sleeping. Sherlock forgets to inhale.

John’s eyes are open, staring obscurely into an unknown distance, looking without fixation point into the nothingness. No movement of the pupils. Once he blinks, but it’s more self-preservation than an actual reaction.

He’s asleep, he’s asleep, Sherlock thinks. And knows it is a lie.

 

 


	7. Self-built prison

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We hope it's a nightmare. We can't breath in an empty office. We talk to a doctor.

**7\. Self-built prison**

„Sir, can you hear me? “

Carefully the paramedic rolls John over on his back, lights in his eyes with his torch, the pupils grow smaller, but there is no other reaction. Then he takes his pulse yet again, shakes his head and then finally turns around. Sherlock is standing in the shadows, his head lowered, beside him stands Lestrade, exhaustedly rubbing his eyes.

“I can’t do much from here. We should take him to a hospital first.”

Lestrade nods tiredly, his face is still grey, like it is covered in a layer of dust. Two other paramedics appear with a stretcher, together they lift John’s body. Sherlock looks up, sees the lifeless man, the eyes, if he hadn’t felt the pulse before, he would be convinced that John is dead. Dirt scrunches under the wheels when the men leave the hall. Sherlocks thoughts are blurry, confusing, there is a strange chaos in his head, he is unable to decide what to do next. Even the task to move seems to be too much for his body.

“What did they do to him?” Lestrades voice sounds hollow and devoid, the words little more than a whisper. For a while the question hovers between them, Sherlock knows many answers to it, but refuses to utter them.

“When we found him...” Lestrade starts, probably because he needs it. He can’t stand the silence, not like Sherlock who sees the darkness of the warehouse as a shelter, who clings to the mouldy air because it seals him off from the outside. Out there everything becomes real again, but inside, in the diffused light, it all seems to be a nightmare. Lestrade is not the kind of person who stays alone with his thoughts, he can’t exist in the quietness, for him it is more crushing than noise.

“At first I thought he’s dead. Really, I thought: That’s it.” He looks into the floodlight for some seconds before he blinks and goes on. “Then I saw him breathing and that his eyes were open. We tried to speak to him. Shook him carefully. I even slapped his face.” Lestrades laughs short and dry, as if he couldn’t believe it himself. “No reaction, not even the slightest.” He turns around to Sherlock, his facial expression seems controlled, overconscientious, a mask he needs to put on a lot as a police man. “What did they do, Sherlock? What can break a person like that?”

Sherlock doesn’t want to think about it, but his brains switches to pictures and reports, about torture, mental and physical, about the war and known cases, about decease patterns and traumata. He lifts his hands to his head, runs his fingers through his hair where dust adheres. With all his left strength he pushes the information back, suppresses the flood of images; a twinge in his temples makes him sucking in the air through his gritted teeth.

Lestrade sighs, then he wordlessly decides that it’s time to leave this place. And even if Sherlock isn’t ready yet, he slowly follows the detective inspector, his hands still pressed against his skull. But suddenly a thought appears, it strikes his attention because it’s not bloodstained and blurry but clear and lucid and white, like his deductions used to be. Before he leaves the warehouse through the tall gate, he turns around yet again and looks up in one corner of the hall which lays in the dark, searches the invisible ceiling of the building. Finally he finds the spot where he suspects the camera. For some seconds he just stares up, his arms sunken. Then he mouths three words with his lips until someone shuts down the floodlight and everything becomes black.

You. Are. Dead.

 

 

***

 

 

_Jim pushes him against the wall, one hand grabs his short hair, the other holds his lower jaw tight. Sebastian pulls him closer, their mouths meet, taking each other’s breathes. Jim is impatient, he presses his body yet closer against Moran, his hands tug on his shirt, pushing it upwards; cold fingers on warm skin. His mouth wanders along Sebastian’s jaw down to his neck, his teeth brush over the pulse point. Moran cocks his head when Moriarty bites him, not strong enough so that it bleeds, but all the same painful._

_“Jim”. The name disappears into the wideness of the office. The screen is buzzing, the images are green and grainy, showing the empty hall and the front yard of the warehouse. Behind the desk still lies the young man, keeps silent, the wound on his forehead dried up long since, the carpet under him is soaked._

_Moriarty laughs while his fingers play with Sebastian’s belt, tugging on it until it falls to the ground, clattering. Then he pushes the shirt further upwards, pulls it over his head, it ends up careless on one of the desks. Almost tenderly he skims his fingertips over the scars on Sebastian’s chest, he knows each one of them and their history. For some of them he is responsible himself. He reads him like a map, fingernails scratch over trembling skin, leaving red marks beside white lines. Finally his hand closes around the throat, he feels the pulse in it and how the blood is constantly pumped through the veins, under his fingertips vibrates life. Jim loves to play with breath like he loves playing with death. The thought of dominating someone completely arouses him even more. Sebastian feels his lungs being eager for oxygen, the urge to inhale air, but Jim just presses his mouth against his own yet again, he can feel his tongue against his lips, then inside his mouth. His head begins to spin._

_There is no safeword in this relationship, no signal which signifies to stop. Each time Sebastian expects not to survive, and still there is the allure because not only Moriarty loves the proximity of death._

_When his legs seem to give in, Jim retreats his hand from his neck, his body is shaking while he takes deep breathes, he coughs, Jim laughs._

_“You’re in good mood today”, Sebastian hoarsely says while he watches Moriarty unbuttoning his shirt, slowly and calm, which doesn’t seem to fit his otherwise thrilled state. But suits were always a special something for Jim, an obsession. Not as much as Sherlock is, though. Sebastian’s head is still foggy because of the lack of oxygen, he leans against the wall, his sweaty back adheres to it, his hands seeking support, and then he speaks it out load, his thought, it escapes his head unintentionally._

_“You’re obsessed with Sherlock,”_

_Jim pauses, his shirt between his hands, and looks up slowly. For a moment he seems to wonder if he misheard something, but then he smiles, willing to ignore the sentence, but too late, Sebastian can’t stop it, he speaks on._

_“Did it never occur to you that your obsession is a weakness? He has a good grip on you, you can’t stop thinking of him.” Moran shortly laughs, he realises how childish that sentence sounds, his hands run through his face._

_The belt hits his hot cheek, rips the skin open; he struggles sideward’s, lifts his arms protectively in front of his head. Jim stares at him, eyes wide open._

_“You better shut up, Seb.” Despite his anger he looks irritated, he breaths heavily, his hand with the belt in it is trembling. Finally Jim approaches him, but no new strokes are coming, instead he pushes Seb’s hands aside, observes the wound on his face. He leans forward, his tongue touches the cut, licks up the blood which is seeping down his cheek._

_Then he throws down the belt, turns away and leaves the room without another word._

_***_

“Catatonic stupor”, the doctor says whose name Sherlock has already forgotten. “A state of neurogenic motor immobility while being awake. He’s not sleeping, but isn’t noticing his surrounding, nor does he react to any stimuli, be it pain or people talking to him.”

Lestrade nods, just to do anything. Sherlock looks to John who lays breathing silently in a hospital bed and sleeps.

“Well, to get in such a state a healthy human must experience a heavy psychological trauma”, the doctor goes on and lifts his clipboard, his eyes behind the glasses wander over the piece of paper. “And when I take a look at the amount of his injuries... Over one hundred cuts, bruises and burns, especially on his back, neck and chest. Two broken ribs, not to forget the detached finger.”  Sherlock swallows, he adverts his gaze from John. “The bullet wound on his shoulder was treated well though, and the finger was amputated cleanly. Therefore his physical state isn’t worrying much. But his psychological state is more than critical. Never before have I seen a patient as deep in catatonia as he is. You know, this state is, assuming that the stupor isn’t a result of failing cerebral metabolism, a kind of self-protection, caused by a traumatic experience. The conscious secludes itself into the back of the patients mind because he can’t bear the pain. It is very difficult to bring the conscious back because you’re almost unable to reach it in there, sometimes not even with strong stimuli like electroshocks.”

A nurse enters the room, leans to the doctor’s ear and whispers something whereat the doctor nods. He signs a document which is hold in front of him, then he turns around to Lestrade and Sherlock again.

“Well, he’s asleep for now. Maybe we can make him leave his self-built prison with the right medication, there are some encouraging successful cases. But at first you need to sign these papers which allow us to make an aids test. Beside his several injuries and the resulting haemorrhaging we have grounds to believe that he was also...”

Sherlock lifts his hand, the doctor swallows the last word, nods and holds the piece of paper out to him. For a while he wordlessly watches the document, then Sherlock shakes his head.

“I’m not allowed to sign these. In this case probably his sister is the one responsible for this”, he silently says. He realises that an unpleasant phone call lies ahead of him.

For some seconds the doctor doesn’t know what to say, the paper still hovers between them like a jeremiad.

“No reaction, you said?” Lestrade breaks through the awkward silence, and the doctor awakens from his confusion and nods frantically, wants to begin talking again when the detective inspector tilts his head towards John’s bed. The others turn their heads in surprise, they’re looking at John, and John looks back. His body seems as motionless as before, lifeless and limb, but his eyes are open and observing. He stays quiet, there are no facial expressions. But his gaze is locked on Sherlock and follows him even when he draws closer to the bed.

“Amazing”, the doctor whispers.

“He woke up when you started to talk, Sherlock. Since then he followed your every movement.”

Sherlock hearts is pounding in his throat, he looks down on his friend, sees the oppressed body, the smooth skin, the emotionless face, the hand with only four fingers, and the image of it will be stuck in his mind forever, he can’t do anything about it. John looks up at him, neutral, just observes him; Sherlock isn’t sure if he actually recognises him, impossible to interpret him, too empty and blank are face and body.

Slowly he sits down on a chair next to the bed. Reaches out his hand. Motionless he places it besides John’s upon the soft sheet.

They don’t touch.

 

 

 


	8. Familiar trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We nod. We shake our head. We talk to our brother. We fight.

**8\. Familiar trust**

Through the drawn curtains yellow sunlight falls in and creates wild patterns on the floor. The window behind the fabric is open, fresh air streams through the room, causes the pages of the book in Sherlocks hands to rustle.

John spreads his fingers upon the blanket, observes his hands yet again as if he sees them for the first time, bends his fingers one after another. Sometimes he does that for hours. Sherlock is just sitting next to him on his chair then, leafing through a book or old police records and stays silent.

John does not always react to stimuli, every morning it’s a game of luck. Sometimes Sherlock enters the room and John is back in his catatonia completely, unable to escape from his inside. But on other days his mind is awake, then his eyes are following every movement and he tilts his head when someone is asking something. Sherlock will never forget the moment when John lifted his hand for the first time and pointed at the glass of water. On his good days they can ask him questions, and then he will nod for a Yes or he will shake his head for a No, just like they showed him before. Did he remember what happened to him? A head-shake. Was he in pain? A head-shake. Did he know who he was? A nod. After this questionings he mostly fell asleep.

Today his sister visited, Sherlock promised to call her when John had a good day, and therefore she stood silently in the room soon after, looking down to her brother. When she finally reached her hand to stroke his hair, Sherlock stopped her.

“Don’t touch him”, he calmly said and after receiving an irritated look from Harry, he added, “He doesn’t react all too well to contact. Even the nurses have problems when they want to take a blood sample or stick a needle into the back of his hand.”

“But how...”

“They do it when he’s asleep or when he won’t notice it. On days like this”, he turned away from Harry, one hand ran nervously through his dark curls, “well, I do it then. It doesn’t seem to be a problem when I touch him”, he shortly said and let himself fall into his chair again.  

Harry left the room an hour ago, since then John eyed his fingers. Eventually Sherlock sighs, snaps the book in his hands shut and faces the bed.

“John?”

Immediately he looks up, his eyes fixate Sherlock.

“Do you know who just visited you?”

Hesitation, then a nod. Sherlock slightly sways his head. Sometimes it’s difficult to ask the right questions because they can only be answered by Yes or No, end every time they tried to give John a pen and paper, it failed hopelessly. Therefore Sherlock thinks hard about his next questions.

“Who was it? Your aunt?”

John shakes his head.

“Your mother?”

Again a head-shake, John cocks his head almost as if he wanted to ask why Sherlock was acting so stupid. Sherlock smiles.

“Your sister, then.”

John nods. Amazing.

The door gets opened silently, Johns head slowly turns around towards the entrance, a nurse enters the room, her gaze skims from one man to the other. Then she lowers her head, speaks a soft Hello into the chamber. In her hand is a new IV bag, she turns the butterfly-needle between her fingers. Sherlock stands up, approaches her, has a brief talk with her, she nods, thrusts the bag into his hands and disappears.

John knows the procedure, rubs with his fingers above the old puncture where the skin turned lightly blue, then he holds out his hand to Sherlock. He doesn’t grimace when the needle enters his skin. For a while Sherlock stands still, his upper body next to the bed, it’s almost like he bends over the man in it, the wind blows the curtains aside, lets in a little bit of sunshine into the darkened room, John gazes after the sunbeams.

“John?” Sherlocks voice slightly trembles. John doesn’t avert his gaze, counts the streaks of light which fall onto the ground. “You have no idea what happened to you, do you?”

They posed this question frequently and every time the answer stayed the same. John slowly shakes his head. Sherlock thinks, shifts words.

“Do you remember Afghanistan?”

For a while nothing happens, Sherlock can’t see Johns face, but finally he nods, it’s a tough nod as if the memory just fought through his obscured mind. John turns around, lifts a hand and lies it over his shoulder, under the fabric is the scar, he remembers the shot. Sherlock closes his eyes, thinking. And then suddenly he figures it out, he opens his eyes wide, looks down.

“You think you’ve just returned from Afghanistan”, the realisation overcomes him, John’s head nods, a bit hesitating as if he now suspects his assumption wrong. Sherlock stays silent, watches him a long time with wide eyes, so long that John takes his hand off of his shoulder and softly touches Sherlock’s trouser leg, as to awaken him. But Sherlock just swallows, his gaze glides to the curtains and the dimmed sunlight behind them, and his voice is shaking when he says:

“You don’t know who I am.”

John shakes his head.

 

 

***

 

 

Mycroft pulls on his sleeves, the umbrella swings around his elbow. He thankfully rejected the offer to sit down saying that he was on the hop and just wanted to check if everything was in order. The flat is messy, books and documents are piled up on the floor or scattered across the sofa and the table. Sherlock doesn’t bother to tidy, not if it’s just to keep up appearances for his brother. Exhausted he falls back into his armchair, he eyes the door in which still silently stands Mycroft.

“Well?” the aforementioned says and raises his eyebrows.

Sherlock stays quiet. Too many thoughts are in his head, he doesn’t have the time to order them, and secretly he longs for his 7% and the resulting silence, but he knows that he can’t do it, impossible to shut down now.

Finally after some minutes of taciturnity, Mycroft sighs and puts on his head. Just when he wanted to turn around and wordlessly leave the flat, Sherlock sits up, props up his arms on his knees and lays his head between his hands.

“He doesn’t even know who I am”, he quietly says, almost to himself, “So why am I the only person he seems to trust?”

Mycroft hesitates, looks at the ground, then up again. “He always trusted you. No matter how risky that was. After one day he trusted you more than he trusted his sister after a whole life. A part of this faith seems to have remained in his mind. He might not know who this stranger is he’s trusting”, Mycroft shortly smiles and his gaze drifts away into his memories, “but well, it wasn’t any different when you two first met, I reckon.”

Sherlock shakes his head, his fingers grab his hair tightly.

“How am I supposed to help him?” he whispers, “I don’t know how to care about people. I’m not even able to take care of myself. How can he expect that I can help him?”

Mycroft looks down to his younger brother, his usually serious and controlled countenance suddenly becomes soft.

“There are moments in life...” he begins, hesitates for a second as if he forgot what he wanted to say, starts again. “Sometimes, Sherlock, we need to make decisions. These decisions are very important. You’ve got two options now. Either you pull yourself together and start acting like a human being. Or you forget him and return to your old life.”

Sherlock looks up, his gaze frozen, watches through his older brother, in his head he turns over decisions, ponders, thoughts flash up, disappear again into the vortex of his mind.

“Two options, Sherlock. Choose wisely.”

Mycroft tips his head, than he leaves through the door. His steps on the wooden stairs sound heavy.

 

 

***

 

 

The visiting hours are long over and from early attempts Sherlock knows that even with good words they can’t be changed. All his acting talent was useless against the ward sister, she always threw him out.

But this time the urge, the invisible pull to John is too strong, therefore he sneaks through the empty corridors of the hospital, in his nose the smell of disease and disinfectant, a smell he always cherished, but now leaves strange feeling in his stomach. Carefully and silently he reaches John’s room, pulls down the handle and with his eyes on the hallway, he enters the chamber. After he closed the door he turns around. And his heart cramps.

At the window, in the gray light of the shimmering metropolis, stands John, one hand pressed against the glass, staring out onto London. His body slightly trembles, as if he was a little bit unsteady on his feet, he put one arm around his stomach, he stays mildly hunched.

Sherlock opens his mouth but no words are leaving it, his feet are moving on their own, he slowly approaches him, reaches out his hand for John, John who is standing there at the window like he often did in 221b Bakerstreet when he felt sleepless, when his shoulder hurt or the adrenalin kept him awake. And Sherlock thinks, Now everything is back to normal. He touches Johns shoulder.

John spins around, grabs Sherlocks arm and twists it around and behind his back in a fluent movement, a sharp pain goes through his muscles, Sherlock moans in surprise. The grip is tight, but he feels John still shaking, and so he wriggles himself out of the clasp and struggles backwards, lifting his hands soothingly.

“John“, he starts to say, but John grabs his arms yet again and pushes him further backwards until he crushes against the wall. A clenched hand hits his face with such a force that Sherlock sees black spots, he numbly shakes his head, half-heartedly lifts his arms again, looks through them into John’s eyes, inside them there flickers fear, even more, sheer panic, and something different. Anger. Despair. John keeps silent, no sound comes out of his mouth, but he lifts his fists again and again and strikes out, and eventually Sherlock lowers his defence and endures the strokes and thinks it’s exactly what he deserves. He can understand the anger, and the pain causes a wonderful calmness inside of him.

John’s energy doesn’t last for long, soon his hits become weaker, and finally they stop completely. Breathing heavy he stands in front of Sherlock, and when Sherlock looks up and wipes the blood from his lips with his sleeve, he sees something new in John’s eyes.

Cognition.

John lowers his arms and looks into the face of the other one, his eyes wide open as if he suddenly realises what he had done. And then, very slowly, he takes the missing step to Sherlock, his whole body trembling terribly, and wordlessly leans his head against Sherlocks shoulder, and his upper body shudders, silent hot tears run down his cheeks and drip soundless into Sherlocks shirt.

Sherlocks hands are hovering aimlessly beside his body for a while, his throat feels like it burns, he swallows hard.

And then, at last, he lifts his hands, wraps them around Johns shaking body and holds him tight.


	9. Golden shot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We kill. We talk. We leave.

**9\. Golden shot**

_The blade enters the skin so smoothly that Sebastian nearly doesn’t feel it. So easy and without resistance cuts the knife the throat of the other man, so soundless he sinks to the ground that he is almost sorry for it. His hand presses against the man’s mouth, but he is silent anyway, his eyes wide._

_He doesn’t die instantly. Sebastian crouches beside the flinching body, leans lightly over it. The blood pulses out of the wound, agglutinates the clothes and the ground with red liquid. The man trembles as if he was cold not dying, his fingers dig into the dirt, grabbing soil. In doing so he watches Sebastian with a ghastly face, unable to blink. He breathes stertorously, blood bubbles in his lung, purple froth drips out of the corner of his mouth. And then the lying body tilts over a bit, and out of the inside pocket of the blood-smeared jacket slips a small leather case. Without touching or even opening it, Sebastian knows what it is, saw these things a hundred times before, and then he picks it up yet again and opens it and three syringes face him._

_His first thought is that he can certainly sell the stuff for some extra money, but then he grimaces, the drug scene has never been his bag and he has no idea anymore how it works nowadays._

_And then he thinks of Jim._

_He is a drug. An addiction. Sebastian twists one of the syringes between his fingers, the needle under the plastic cap gleams. An addiction that will kill him some day. And he thinks, that’s his destiny, to die violently, that’s the way of the world, just so, and he actually believes it would only be fair. Because he killed so many and he’s just one person._

_But not now. He doesn’t want to know when and where and how it will happen. He wants it to be a surprise, he wants to think, well that’s how I die then, and he wants it to be good and satisfying. With a smile on his face. And blood on his hands._

_And suddenly it becomes clear to him what that means, and when he stands up, he came to a decision. He will leave._

_Sebastian carelessly drops the syringe, it lands in front of the frozen eyes of the man. Blood trickles out of the dead body, creates a glutinous sea under pale hands. Dirt sticks under fingernails._

_***_

John seems lost in the silence of the flat. His gaze wanders above the furniture, his hand grabs the door frame and supports him. Sherlock brought the books and documents into his own room, there they’re piled up on his bed which he doesn’t use anyways. But the living room is free now, Mrs. Hudson wiped the floor, dusted and cleaned the windows, and so the sunlight falls straight to the old wooden boards that creak under his feet.

The whole thing is an experiment. John still changes between awake and locked phases. They gave him “A study in Pink” to read, and no sooner he held the still warm sites in his hands and read the first words his eyes widened.

Since that day they communicate through short sentences John scribbles onto a pad. Sometimes he claims that he could remember all their cases and knows how he and Sherlock first met, but often it’s just memories of the blog entries he read. The wounds heal over, leaving small pale scars. John never asks where they come from; Sherlock would never give an answer.

After all it was the doctor who suggested the experiment. Reactivation of memory with the help of visual stimuli. Returning to a familiar place.  Sherlock had doubts. Not about the method itself, he himself had the idea before. But Bakerstreet, the place which would hold the most memories of the time after the war for John, was also the place he got shot, where all this begun.

“You can’t have both, Sherlock”, Mycroft had said on the phone. “Either he remembers it all. Or none.” Sherlock gets annoyed at Mycroft being right every time in the last weeks, but he’s too tired, too busy to bother.

Bakerstreet. John stands in the door and observes the flat, Sherlock asks “Do you remember?” and he slowly nods. Carefully he moves into the room, his fingers skim over the furniture, under his fingertips the rough material of wood or the smooth fabric of the armchair. 

After some minutes he stops in front of the coffee table and the sofa, looks down and knits his eyebrows. He takes his note pad out and with shaking fingers he writes in capital letters:

SOMETHING HAPPENED HERE.

Sherlock sighs. Watches him a long time and thinks. All or none.

And then he speaks. About the night and the fresh suture. How they sat in the silence and John stitched up his wound. About the next morning when Sherlock blacked out, and about the reproaches John never addressed. And then, slowly, he tells of the shot, describes the trajectory, calculates speed and names weapons, and he realises that he is getting scientific and that his brain takes over again, and then he falls silent and says nothing more. He only thinks that he sat beside John’s body and reached his finger but never touched him. And that Chlorophorm mixed with John’s name. And then he can’t say if he spoke it out loud yet again or if John just knows it.

John leans against his armchair, his arms hang loosely on his sides, he quietly breathes, stares at the spot where his body lied so long ago and lost blood between the floor boards. And finally he nods, a simple motion that means so much more, Sherlock takes it as a “I understand”, and sees the changes in the other man’s face. He watches memories breaking away from the darkness one after another, fragments are put together, and piece by piece John Watson rebuilds his mind.

Sherlock looks down at the sofa, he remembers all too well the morning and his words, which he regrets so much, and only now, after all these months, he finds in his brain what he back then searched for too long.

“I’m sorry”, Sherlock says and John looks up. For a while they just watch each other and Sherlock isn’t sure if John knows what he is talking about, but then he realises that he just needs to say it again. “I’m so sorry”, he therefore repeats, and then: “It was stupid, childish! I should never have said that to you, no, of course not. Why did I say it anyways?” Sherlock shakes his head.

“Because you’re an idiot.”

John’s voice is so thin and quiet and husky, and when Sherlock looks up in surprise he still looks as small and lost as before. But on his face there is a faint smile and it’s the moment when Sherlock wants to laugh with all his heart and scream and clench his fists and shout and yes, maybe even cry.

He does none of this, he keeps calm and smiles back to his friend, and the feeling of happiness overwhelms him.

 

 

***

 

 

_The Jambiya lies on the side table, the blade shines tarnished in the lamps light, the handle and the pattern on it are smooth and worn and at some spots where the blood seeped into the wooden ornaments it is coppery. Sebastian sits on the edge of the bed, at the door leans, indifferent, Jim Moriarty. With his fingers he lightly loosens the knot of his tie._

_“Where do you want to go, Seb?” The question is posed so calmly, and still Sebastian feels the tension. He understands that he can’t keep it from him, and he never intended to. You can’t hide anything from Jim Moriarty. His fingertips play with the dog tags around his neck, they silently clash against each other, clicking._

_“Back”, he says, “Back to Yemen.”_

_Jim suddenly laughs, in his eyes flashes anger, with a start he pulls the tie over his head and drops it to the floor._

_“You think you can just leave?” Jim takes some steps towards him while he slowly removes the jacket from his shoulders. Sebastian gets up, he’s taller than Jim and still he has the feeling to be dominated. In his stomach it trembles and vibrates, he tries to concentrate, but he feels sick and dizzy. He feels like he’s going cold turkey._

_“I’m not your prisoner anymore, Jim”, he says as calmly as he can manage, but Jim takes the last step towards him and laughs again. He grabs the dog tags and pulls Sebastian’s body closer, near his face._

_“No, no, Seb, you’re right. No prisoner.” His breath moves along Sebastian’s cheek to his ear, whispers one word. “Possession.”_

_Sebastian wants to push him away, but Jim is faster, presses him backwards until he struggles onto the bed, he is fast above him, pushes his hands down. Sebastian is stronger, actually, but he can’t fight back, or doesn’t want to, in Sebastian’s head questions and thoughts are spinning around, he looks up in Jims face._

_“Why do you want to leave me, Seb?” he asks and there really is a short glimpse of vulnerability on his face and the smile disappears. He sits on Sebastian’s chest so that he gasps for air and the words come out between his teeth as a hissing._

_“You’re poison, Jim. And you’re killing me.”_

_Jim watches him for a long time, a few times it looks as if he wants to laugh again, but be swallows it down._

_“You can’t leave”, he says, and as if he realised how desperate that sentence sounded, he adds: “You need me.”_

_Sebastian coughs, Jim bows down, grips his cheek and pulls him against his lips. Sebastian tries to turn his head, but then he lets it happen, and eventually he opens his mouth and he can taste Jim on his tongue, can’t stop himself from slipping his hand behind his body and pulling him closer. Finally Jim breaks away, lifts his head and Sebastian shudders when he sees his expression. Jim smiles, one corner of his mouth bend upwards, his eyes are opaque and empty and sad and then he leans forwards down again and his trembling lips touch his own so lightly._

_The Jambiya breaks through the skin between his ribs, pain explodes in his chest when the blade cuts through muscles and sinews and the point of the knife pierces into his heart. Sebastian exhales in surprise, the hurt paralyses him, he suddenly feels the blood seeping into his shirt, feels the red life gushing out of him and he sees into Moriartys eyes. Jim gently places one hand behind his head, the other hand leaves the knives handle and he puts the arm around Sebastian. Then he presses the dying body against his own, his forehead on Sebastian’s, his skin so warm. Fingers grab into his blonde hair, Sebastian barely feels it, blood sticks to Jim’s suit but he doesn’t seem to mind it._

_Sebastian’s head vibrates, his thoughts disappear into a vortex of darkness, he closes his eyes. The deadly dose, he thinks, the golden shot._

_Jim cradles him. Blackness. A whimper. Or a giggle. Impossible to tell. Jims hand in his hair._

_Inhale. Steal and skin. Blood trickles into hot sand. It’s so warm. The sun breaks through his closed eye lids, and Jim is just a shadow. Under him the dessert glows. It burns._

_Jim._

_He smells of sand._


	10. Eternal silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We sit in a park. We lose all hope. We return to where we end it.

**10\. Eternal silence**

The reflection of the sun crinkles in the small waves which the wind pushes over the surface of the lake. Steps crunch on the gravel path, a boy pushes a wheelchair, his mother in it smiles blissfully, her eyes are closed, she looks into the sky, her face nearly white in the sunbeams. Two doctors are wandering under the elms, they drag their white coats along like capes, absorbed in their conversation they’re gesture wildly, their hands wave about each other’s face.

Sherlock breathes in the warm air, leans back a bit und stretches his legs forward, just so that his toecap projects into the patch of sun on the ground. They’re sitting in the park in front of the hospital, above the broad branches cast a pleasant shadow on the bench. John pores over yet another of his blog entries which Sherlock printed out for him, and now and then he smiles or frowns or murmurs that he remembers a certain detail. Meanwhile Sherlocks gaze runs over the people walking through the park, analysing them, gives his brain something to work on and soothes it. He wants to indulge in the silence, he really does, but yet he can’t shut down completely.

John sits close to him, their shoulders and arms touch, and it’s a good thing. Sherlock feels John’s movements when he turns the pages or lightly coughs or shakes his head. When he murmurs it’s like his whole body vibrates against his own, and Sherlock takes this feeling in and relishes it. Contact, he thinks, and certainty that someone’s alive.

The visit in Bakerstreet is now a week ago and John fights himself further out of his mind. Sometimes he is silent again, but then he reflects and sorts his thoughts, he doesn’t disappear inside his head anymore but digs himself out even more. Sherlock watches this process with fascination and asks himself if he should be ashamed that he observes his friend like an experiment.

The memories come and go. Sometimes John tries to fool him, as if he wanted to protect him like he always did, but Sherlock knows when his memory has gaps again or when he’s a stranger to John yet again. And then he smiles and says that John shouldn’t worry, and sometimes, on rare occasions, he reaches his hand and places it on his shoulder, hesitating, trembling, and then it rests there on warm fabric and he feels the heat of John’s body up to his skin and then he knows that his friend still lives and fights.

“Irene Adler”, John says, and Sherlock understands and turns his head. The blog entry for this case is short and vacuous; John wasn’t allowed to tell details that time.

“What do you remember?”

John cocks his head, tries to filter out the right memories, his gaze wanders top right. “Christmas. Vatican Cameos. Lestrade and I carry you to your bed. New Year. You ask me to punch you in the face. Mycroft. The Buckingham Palace”, he finally says, hesitates, “Everything is vague. Is it...even the right...order?” He lifts his hands, presses them against his temples, he closes his eyes, his fingers pull on his hair.

Carefully Sherlock tugs on Johns arm until he lets his head lose again and slowly opens his eyes. His gaze shifts between disappointment and an apology, but Sherlock just shakes his head.

“I will tell you the whole story. You will remember it then.”

Suddenly his mobile phone vibrates in his trouser pockets, once, twice, thrice. Lestrade, Sherlock guesses, then: A call, no message, it’s important and it’s much information, too much to send it in a text. He doesn’t work on an urgent case, so Moriarty it is. A lead.

He looks to John who nods and smiles, and instantly Sherlock grabs into his pocket, his thumb skims over the display, then he holds the phone against his ear.

“Lestrade”, he says while he stands up and walks away from the bench, in the corner of his eye he sees John leafing through the pages and reading again.

“Sherlock. There is news.”

He bites back a comment about how obvious this fact is and just makes an affirmative sound.

“We searched the old house in Abbey Street. Of course we didn’t find Moriarty there. But it was fully furnished and warm, as if someone lived there for some time.”

Sherlock nods eagerly. This information is useless and Lestrade wouldn’t call for a cold scent. The Detective Inspector is quiet for some seconds, as if he expects annoyed words from the end of the line. Then he silently goes on.

“We found a dead body upstairs in the bedroom.”

Surprised Sherlock grabs his phone tighter. Interesting, he thinks, his gaze wanders to the bench on which John’s still sitting, he can only see the back of his head and his back pressed against the wood, behind him the sun glares onto the lake. Confused he realises that another person is sitting right next to John, the white coat falls through the wooden laths to the ground. A doctor. 

“A dead body?” Sherlock asks because Lestrade didn’t speak on.

“Male, white, short blonde hair, in his late thirties, tall, sturdy. Dog Tags around his neck.”

Sherlock averts his gaze from the bench and slowly exhales. “The man with the military background”, he whispers, Lestrade seems to be irritated and clears his throat. Sherlock sighs. “The weapon, Lestrade, I associated the weapon with a man with military background. He’s our murderer. Did he have an Arabic knife with him? A Jambiya?”

“It was between the folded hands on his chest. He was laid out as in a coffin, had a lily between his fingers too. It was...creepy.”

“Cause of death, Lestrade.”

“Stab in the heart. The murder weapon was...”

“The Jambiya, yes”, Sherlock quietly says, Lestrade snorts on the other side of the line. “Why did he have to die, killed with his own weapon? How could Moriarty neutralise a killer like him?” He eyes the bench, the unfamiliar doctor leans slightly in Johns direction who stares straight forward, motionless. Pins and needles crawl up Sherlocks spine to his head, his hairs suddenly stand on end.

“There is only one solution”, he forces himself to stay calm. “He was Moriartys confident. The only ally in this game that wasn’t killed instantly. But something changed. Moriarty goes crazy, he kills his only...friend. That was stupid, he made a mistake. That’s why he will make his next move soon, leaving his hide-out.”

The doctor suddenly stands up, with slow and strolling steps he diverges from the bench. John still sits without moving, Sherlock frowns, and then his gaze meets the ground where white pages are scattered, wind tugs on paper, swirls it up and pushes it through the gravel.

Wordless Sherlock hangs up and as he runs he shoves the phone back into his pocket, he shouts John’s name while he dashes towards the bench. No reaction. He just stares onto the lake, and when Sherlock circuited him he sees the panic in his paralysed eyes and soft trembling on his skin. And then Sherlock looks around and searches the area and in the distance, between other white coats, he sees the doctor who was sitting next to John a minute ago. The stranger turns around, too far away to see his face, but Sherlock know who he is.

Moriarty raises a hand and waves and yet he knows that Sherlock won’t follow him.

 

 

***

 

 

A nurse rushes in front of him, steps aside before John’s room and points into it nervously. From inside excited noised get through, and when Sherlock opens the door there’s total chaos going on. A doctor stands on the left side of the bed and holds his bleeding hand, red liquid drips onto the white sheet, leaving darkling stains. Another nurse leans against the wall in one corner of the room, her hands in front of her open mouth she poises like a terrified statue. Two carers, one with a syringe, the other just with bare soothing hands, try to calm down John.

John.

With eyes wide open he pressed himself against the window, in his hand a scalpel, who knows where he found it, maybe the doctor in his subconsciousness knew where to look. He holds the blade defensively in front of him, that he can strike he proved impressively with the doctor whom the blood seeps through his fingers.

Sherlock carefully approaches John whose eyes dart from one person to another, and finally he sees Sherlock and something like cognition appears, but it’s suppressed by panic and fear at an instant, and he begins to tremble uncontrollably.

“John”, Sherlock calmly says, he lifts his arms, shows him his empty hands. John’s eyes are fixed upon him, he breathes short and ragged, his pupils vibrate of stress, his whole body is cramped, Sherlock can see the strained muscles under the pale scars on his bare upper arm. He moves towards John who stays eased, the scalpel still protectively between his fingers. But Sherlock could always calm him down, he trusts me, he thinks, and slowly he takes yet another step towards his friend, looks into his eyes and whispers his name.

But then John strikes out, Sherlock sees the movement too late, his reflexes not as fast as the soldiers’, and so the scalpel brushes his cheek, leaves a thin cut. Frightened Sherlock stumbles backwards, looks at him and he wants to reach his hand yet again when John starts to scream, at first that they all should leave him alone and then unfinished words, and at last in a burst of panic he holds the blade against his own throat. 

And blood drops down Sherlocks cheek and he is numbed and watches as the carers eventually overwhelm John and stick the sedative shot into his arm and then John’s body sinks lifelessly to the ground.

 

 

***

 

 

“It’s not unusual that a patient with such psychic strain has a relapse. To be honest with you, we expected something like that. It was surprising anyway that he recovered that fast from a catatonic stupor. All it needs with such a patient is a sign stimulus, something that reminds him of his traumatic experience, and then the mutism returns and the hallucinations and finally the catatonia.

It’s possible that he will never fully recover. That he will always toggle between phases, sometimes more, sometimes less being himself. And sometimes completely lost in his mind. Then we have to start the therapy all over again. You have to be patient, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock nods. And then he leaves.

 

 

***

 

 

Fingers skim over the carvings in the oblong wooden box which contains the seven-per-cent-solution. Sherlock hesitates. His mind shouts for it, it whooshes like there’s a storm in his head, thoughts are being swirled up, wrested from his focus and hurled into the darkness. His heart hurts, it presses against his chest from the inside and hammers against the bones, it already forced him down on his knees and so he crouches in the living room of 221b Bakerstreet. The incident light of the street lamp casts long shadows on the wooden floor, and Sherlock seems to be just another spectre. He’s shaking, his body trembles, and it hurts, hurts so much he wants to scream, but he feels so tired and exhausted, his energy barely enough for breathing. And his fingers fondle the wooden box, and he tries to remember, no!, he knows how much there is inside, and in his head numbers are spinning around, and he calculates roughly and knows that it would be more than enough. Finally he opens the box and then he fills the syringe right up to the top, all the way in. For a long time he observes the liquid inside the syringe, and then the faded punctures on the crook of his arm from days bygone. Silence, he thinks and the word gets wrenched from him instantly and pulled into the screaming maelstrom of his mind. Eternal silence.

The floorboards at the door creak. Tired Sherlock looks up from his syringe and inner duel, and he just knows who will be standing there at the door, and then it’s really Jim Moriarty who glances down on him with that smile that in his pupils looks like hate.

“Well”, Moriarty says quietly but clear, and Sherlock swallows, the syringe between his fingers so cold. “Do you wonder what I whispered into John’s ear at midday in the park?”

He takes a few steps towards him, and then he leans down to the shape on the floor, very close to his ear so that the breath brings the words right into his head.

Six words.

“Tonight I will kill Sherlock Holmes.”


	11. Human being

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We are broken. We become human. We fall.

**11\. Human being**

The sound of his own name is strange to him. It sounds hollow and empty how it rolls over Jim Moriartys lips. Sherlock Holmes. Insignificant syllables, strung together, grey pearls on a line. When did he hear someone say this name, really saying it? Not muttered in a rush, not read out of a newspaper or taken from a flickering computer screen. He tries to picture the figure behind this name, the great detective with his brilliant mind, dark London back alleys are reflected in attentive icy eyes. But everything he sees is a broken man crouching on a dusty floor, the syringe that should end his life between long cold fingers.

“You’re a human wreck”, Moriarty whispers into his ear, stands up and takes a step backwards, watches the hunching shape in front of him on the ground with a scornful smile.

Moriarty is right, he became a fragile shell, and inside him the storm blusters, the same storm he recently was still able to control. Now the vortex digs painfully into his insides, corrodes him, and just as in a black hole everything disappears into that milling mind which is so brilliant and yet so dangerous. When did he sleep the last time, when did he eat? He just can’t remember.

“It took me so long, Sherlock, so long until I knew how to do it”, Jim Moriarty says, and he shakes his head a bit dreamy. “I wrote it all down on a little piece of paper, I made some drawings too. It would have amused you.” He chuckles. “The key, the key. Did you light on the solution? Did you get my brilliant plan yet? Are you still _here_ enough?”

Sherlock breathes in, counts the sniffs of dusty air from the flat that only smells of him now, of his chemicals and the stacks of old books, of paper and boredom and long wake nights on the sofa, fingers pressed together and placed on his chin, and of his gaze to the ceiling. But actually this flat is a museum, nothing is new in here, nothing changes. And Sherlock Holmes an exhibition piece.

Slowly Sherlock leans back, his back touches the wall and finds purchase on it and he slouches even more. He looks up to Jim Moriarty who still shakes his head as if he was shocked at the dimension of his triumph. 

“You were invulnerable, Sherlock, you were above all things. No-one ever got to you, you subsisted on your brilliant mind and on what you were doing. The only decision in your life you had to make was on which side you wanted to be. And you had the choice, oh yes, if not you, then who? Most people talk about fate or predestination, they stumble through life and take what they can, what is offered to them.” His expression becomes disgusted. “But not somebody like you, Sherlock, you always had the choice, and you did choose. You always got what you wanted, you weren’t like other people. You weren’t _human._ ”

The strange fascination Jim Moriarty feels towards him, he can understand it. If you always believed you’re the only one of your kind, you are really surprised to finally find someone who is quite similar to you.

He looks into Moriartys eyes and sees so much darkness and hatred and insanity in them, and he tries to remember if all these things are inside his eyes as well, and he thinks of all the times he avoided his own gaze when looking into the mirror. His heart hammers hard against his chest as if the blood in his veins became thick and twice as much energy was needed to move the vicious black liquid through his body.

“How do bring someone down who’s not human? How do you kill someone to whom death has no meaning at all?” Moriarty asks, his eyes big, two dilated pupils in the twilight of the room. And his next words are so silent that Sherlock barely understands them, and it takes him some seconds to put the thin fragments together. “You make him human.”

For some moments it’s completely quiet, even Sherlocks head grows silent.

“Look at you”, Moriarty then says, and he points at Sherlocks shape on the ground. “Now you’re one of them. A pathetic human being full of emotions and conflicts. I humanized you, all that is left now is killing you. But”, and here he smiles almost sympathetically, “I’m sure that is something you’re looking forward to, and I won’t stop you from doing it yourself.”

Sherlock twists the syringe between his fingers. He uses the silence in his head for a short reflexion, and for some seconds he disappears inside his mind palace, pictures pass him by, injuries, reports. A phone call. John, sitting on a bench. A warehouse. A threat, directed into the dark. A corpse inside an empty house. A lily between cold dead fingers.

Sherlock opens his eyes wide. He slowly stands up, his limbs are feeling so heavy. Moriarty observes him amused, starts to laugh.

“And how much _human_ , Jim Moriarty, are you?” The words are coming so clear out of his mouth that he is surprised. Even in his head when he rolled them back and forth, they were not more than distant stuttering. Moriarty watches him irritated but not alarmed.

“Human, Moriarty, is also insanity. Something that rages inside yourself and controls you, that’s human vulnerability. You think you’re something supernatural and sacrosanct, but instead you’re as pitiful as we are.”

Jim Moriarty stares at him a long time, then he shakes his head, a smile in his face that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“You’re obsessed”, and at these words Moriarty flinches as if he had heard them before, “with me, with this game, with all that. And you feel. You feel the emptiness inside you, and the raging and the pain as much as I do.”

“You don’t know who I am”, Moriarty says between clenched teeth, his body tense, his fists doubled.

“The dead man in Abbey street, you killed him. There is only that one explanation. He was a cold-hearted killer, and yet someone could kill him with a stab into the heart. He wouldn’t let anyone near himself except for an ... acquaintance.” Sherlock sees how Moriartys expression freezes, becomes grey, and the mask crumbles. He takes a deep breath. The next sentence is just a guess.

“You couldn’t stand it, couldn’t you, him, wanting to leave you?”

With a load outcry Moriarty leaps at him, pushes him back against the wall, the hand tight around his throat. The force pressed all the air out of his chest, the syringe falls clattering to the ground. Moriarty is smaller than him but he suddenly feels so helpless how the other holds him against the wall with his whole body, the hand on his throat so strong and determinate, fingers press into his skin, tomorrow, he thinks, there will be bruises, and then he thinks that he won’t live to see tomorrow and that the bruises will be perfect evidence. Sherlock Holmes a crime scene. The irony of that thought would have made him laugh if he had some air left to do so. Instead he stiffens his whole body and he feels the carbon monoxide in his lungs and his vicious blood how it circulates slower and slower, and his arms are hanging loosely besides his body, unwilling to fight back.

“You don’t know him”, Moriarty hisses into his ear, but maybe he says it normally but all the sounds are distorted, the room begins to spin. “And you never will. And it doesn’t matter, Sherlock Holmes”, the name, so hollow, without meaning, an empty phrase, “Because you’re just another puppet between my fingers. And you will die tonight because I want you to.”

The grasp around his throat loosens, Sherlock coughs, oxygen streams into his body but it tastes bitter and stale and he chokes on it and coughs even more. Moriarty bows down and picks the syringe up, observes the floating liquid inside of it.

Again one hand pushes Sherlocks head back against the wall, a piercing pain goes through his skull, but he is glad because he has not to breathe in the bitter air anymore, and then his arm tingles and before he can look down at it Moriarty rams the needle inside the crook of his arm, between all the pale punctures, and it doesn’t even hurt, his body so numb. Then he presses the plunger half down, and he laughs and looks into Sherlocks eyes, and then they watch each other for a while, and the insanity inside Moriartys eyes is only a shadow, now there is grief and sorrow, and suddenly Sherlock knows that Moriarty regrets it.

Moriarty stopped laughing, pushes the plunger down, presses more of the drug into Sherlocks body. He whispers something, a goodbye or just his name or a last triumph, and his eyes, his eyes. And Sherlocks head so silent, so silent, between his black blood the drug where oxygen should be, and he tries to think about John, how it was like before this whole thing started, but everything he sees is his oppressed body and the panic in his eyes and the index finger of the right hand, God, his trigger finger, and nothing will be the same. And then his head becomes silent and everything stops.

Jim Moriartys eyes, they grieve about the death of two friends.

The shot cracks through the room and Moriartys pupils widen when his head gets ripped aside. The bullet splits the skull, shatters bones, and blood and skin and hair adhere as the dead body hits the ground. And Sherlock, unable to stand without Moriartys hand on his throat, falls too, air rushes into his body but he doesn’t feel it. Blood runs over the floorboards, some drops hit Sherlocks face, and at first he stares into Moriartys empty eyes, and then, unable to breathe in, he looks up to the door, and there stands John Watson and in his left, well hand the weapon whose bullet smashed Moriartys head, and his trigger finger so steady and still and he doesn’t tremble. Not the tiniest bit.

Everything blurs.

John who lowers the weapon. Rushing.

His name. Sherlock. The sound. Different when John says it. Totally different.

The distant feeling of the syringe being removed from his arm. The pain when he breathes in. Does he actually breathe? He was wrong, he doesn’t breath, he just stares.

John’s eyes. Panic in John’s eyes. A different panic.

Sherlock. His name, again and again. He can’t get enough of the sound.

A cold hand which touches his cheek and whisks off blood and curls. Voices.

John.

Rushing.

And then.

Nothing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

** EPILOGUE:  **

****

Dust swirls in the incident sunbeams in 221b Bakerstreet. Books are scattered in the whole room, between them loose pages, documents with red marks and side notes. Two armchairs face each other, an old and a new one. The wooden floorboards are grey and old and creak when someone steps on the wrong one.

John knows them all, he knows on which he can put his foot when he wants to be quiet. But now he sits on the sofa, a book between his hands, in front of him a steaming cup of tea, it takes some minutes until it reaches the perfect temperature, not too hot and not too cold. It’s silent inside the flat and John relishes the calmness of this Saturday afternoon.

Sometimes he still has panic attacks, and at night he often wakes up, screaming and flailing. Then he remembers everything that happened. But he lives with it, and everyday it gets a bit easier, and he knows as long as he remembers the terrible things he will remember the good things as well. And Sherlock Holmes, his flatmate, partner, friend.

Steps on wood, the entrance door clicks, then the stairs creak under short, light paces. Sherlock got into the habit of touching the wrong floorboards so John knows when he comes home, and John can identify his steps by now, even asleep.

When Sherlock enters the room he vibrates from excitement, and he tells him about a new case and Lestrade and Anderson and all the people who make him crazy, and he gestures with his long thin fingers.

And then he becomes silent and he sits besides John, so close that he can feel his friends breathing, and finally he leans his head lightly against Johns shoulder. He whispers into the silence “It’s about time you come with me again”, and John smiles, he lifts his right arm, puts it around Sherlock, his hand, his fingers inside his dark curls. Sherlock reaches his hand as well and places it on the soft fabric of John’s jumper, underneath the warm skin that signifies life.

And so they sit and stay quiet and don’t move, John’s fingers on Sherlocks head, and Sherlocks hand on his heart.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it. I hope you enjoyed it. Please, feel free to leave a secret message so I know if you liked it.
> 
> Best wishes and I hope you survived the ride unharmed.
> 
> Cat.


End file.
